


a constant satellite of your blazing sun

by elmshore



Series: a constant satellite of your blazing sun [8]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Other, just pure fluff, nothing but softness here folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28325259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmshore/pseuds/elmshore
Summary: Love shines in those eyes, open and bright and honest, and all of it meant for him.or, a collection of one-shots meant for Mason and Cordelia, using prompts from tumblr.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Series: a constant satellite of your blazing sun [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970686
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	1. is this your first time?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt over on tumblr, but also taken slightly from a longer wedding fic I wrote for these two that will never see the light of day.

Mason has never been one for dreams, but surely this moment comes pretty fucking close to being one.

There is music in the air, soft and distant, a melody carried on the breeze. He can hear the sounds of laughter and people chatting, of gentle waves lapping at the banks, and even the buzz of insects, singing their nightly chorus. 

And yet, none of it matters. Not when above it all, he hears only the sounds of _her_. That heart he knows so well, beating a familiar cadence, steady and true. Quiet breathing, intermingled with the sound of her humming — following the melody, but also changing it, adding in her own bits and pieces, making it better, unique.

She is all he knows in this lone moment. Takes the jagged and sharp edges of the world and smooths them out, blurs the colors until they are no longer blinding but instead beautiful. Wraps him in a blanket of calm, of peace, and tucks it in tight.

This has to be a dream because there is no way he deserves to be this happy.

Fingers brush along his cheek, featherlight and gentle. Trace the dark patterns scattered there, connecting stars and forming constellations and he leans into the touch, drawn to it, to her. Dares to look down and finds her watching him, too-gold eyes soft, tender in a way that leaves him aching, warm, and dizzy.

Love shines in those eyes, open and bright and honest, and all of it meant for him.

Dappled in starlight, Cordelia glitters, glows, and when she smiles, it could rival the sun itself. He feels his heart swell, flowers blooming in his chest, and he wonders if this is what it means, to be truly and utterly happy.

She is warm in his arms, one hand nestled snugly in his own — fingers laced together, interwoven, clinging — and the other cupping his cheek, thumb mapping a course along the curve. Together, they sway, movements slow yet in perfect sync, and it isn’t dancing, not really, but he finds it relaxing, soothing.

Or maybe, really, it’s just her.

“Are you okay?” Her voice is lyrical, made of pure light, and Mason falls into it, lets it imprint itself upon his soul, his heart, every inch of him. 

Realizes, with awe, that he gets to hear this voice for the rest of his life, now. The twin rings adorning their fingers are proof of that.

He chuckles at the question, leans down and presses his forehead against her own, feels their noses bump together. A giggle bubbles out of her, bright as a sunbeam, and he can’t stop his own smile from forming. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m just fine.”

And he’s more than fine, really, truly. But he cannot find the words to describe it, cannot parse emotions into sentiments and bring them to life — they tangle in his throat, a jumble of thorny vines that leave him choking. Saying he loves her is all well and good, but right now, it feels too shallow, not enough.

Mason thinks he might spend the rest of their lives, trying to vocalize the joy she brings him and supposes it is lucky for them both, that they have an eternity.

She presses closer, body flush against his own, and he is enveloped in a sea of rich lavender, cloyingly sweet, notes of rich amber and cheery bergamot washing over him. Entices him, an intoxicating aroma. The scent lingers on him endlessly now, has become a part of him, and it’s silly, but the thought pleases him.

( _and knows she feels the same by the way she wraps herself in his shirts and jackets, clings to the vestiges of him when he cannot be with her_ )

“So, is this your first time?”

The question takes him by surprise. Knocks him off-center, briefly, and he blinks, head cocking to the side. Raises a brow and asks, voice rumbling, “What? Dancing or being married?”

Her laughter is dazzling, sparkling, and sunny. “Both,” Cordelia teases, and he snorts, gives her nose a kiss that has it scrunching up in the most adorable of ways. “Or neither,” she adds, and a flicker of _something_ in her gaze; hopeful, raw.

It settles into him, burrows deep into his bones until it hits marrow and he knows what she means, what she’s asking. 

_Are you happy with me? Is this what you really want?_

_Is this the first time you’ve felt as happy as I do?_

Once more, the words get stuck on the tip of his tongue. Jumble together into a mess, tripping over themselves, and so he answers in the way he does best: with his actions. Shows rather than tells. Closes the gap between them and when her lips meet his own, it is everything and so much more.

She melts into the kiss, returns it with that quiet passion he has come to crave, and deep inside of him, a piece falls back into place, slots itself back where it belongs, and he is made whole.

Pulls back, lips tingling with the flavor of pomegranate and honey, and meets her gaze with his own, holds it firmly, resolute. “Yes,” and that flicker becomes a flame, burning bright in those gleaming eyes, “this is my first time, too.”

But he knows it will not be their last.


	2. rise and shine

She wakes to the feeling of love; a full thing, overwhelming, all-consuming. 

Strong arms hold her close, keep her safe. Nimble fingers map slow, lazy patterns atop her stomach — form constellations between the starbursts there, creating little galaxies, bringing to life universes — and each one is a ripple of pleasure skittering along her nerves, tingles, and shivers and she smiles, a giggle bubbling up and rolling out of her.

Warm breath drifts along the hollow of her throat, and then, his lips follow the path — soft, featherlight, but scorching as brands, leaving marks on her in more ways than one — and her giggle melts into a moan, a sigh, reverent.

Those fingers move, break apart, go their separate ways. A hand travels up, charts a course between the slope of her breasts and traces along her jaw, curls around her chin and turns her head, until that mouth is on her own and the embers smoldering within her flare, kindled once more into a brilliant blaze.

He tastes of chocolate and cloves, a heady sweetness pouring into her veins. He tastes of smoke and earth, a burn upon her tongue, intoxicating. The flavor is nectar, rare and precious, leaves her dizzy and breathless and longing, aching for him.

Another hand travels down, carves a searing trail, and slips between her legs. She is burning now, a wildfire roaring under her skin, and there is a sound leaving her, desperate, wanton, _needful_. He swallows it, plants it in the garden of his heart and makes it a part of himself, lets it put down roots so that one day, perhaps, it might flower into something beautiful.

She hopes to be there, when it does, to see it flourish.

His touch is nothing short of electric, divine. Two fingers — long and lean and so gentle — dip into her center, slick between her folds, and she arches; goes taut, but he holds her fast, keeps her mouth for his own. Curves inside of her; spreads, and stars dance behind her eyelids, rendering her dazed, mind gone white.

A thumb rolls over her clit, circles, and she breaks away from him, strangled cry spilling from her lips. She whispers his name, a litany, a prayer, and she is shaking now, ready to unravel.

He follows her — and oh, she knows he always will, no matter what, a constant shadow by her side — and presses his forehead into her own, their noses bumping together, breath mingling, becoming one. And when her eyes open, she drowns in silver, falling into that winter sky. His lips spread, lengthen into a smile — a true smile, rare and tender and just for her — and she is lost to him, utterly, completely.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

And how can she not shine, when she is enveloped in his light?


	3. only certainty, only love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was asked for angst, so I hope I delivered.

She falls amid chaos.

Mason loses sight of her early into the fight, caught up in a whirlwind of sound and movement. Adrenaline pumps through him, setting every nerve alight, and he falls into the rhythm of battle, of hurting and hurting more.

It is frenetic, a dance he knows well, and wonderful, thrilling — until it stops, a record screeching to a halt.

The battle is won, and she is fallen.

He sees her before the others — always he sees her, the other half of his soul, of his heart — and his world drowns in a sea of crimson, haze curling along the edge of his vision. Bleeds in, blinding him, and he moves, he must, but he is unaware of it.

Only knows that now he is here, kneeling beside her. She is weightless in his arms, fits oh so perfectly in his hold, meant just for him. But she is cold — _no, not right, she is warmth; sunlight and flame and love_ — and Mason draws her closer, tries to give her a little bit of his own heat, whatever she needs; he is hers, utterly and completely and he will give everything he is to her.

Already has, truth be told, and perhaps there is nothing left to give, but he will try.

But first, she must open her eyes.

“Cordelia,” her name is a prayer (and he does not pray, never has, but for her, he will) and she stirs, but her eyes remain closed, hidden, and he grows frantic with each shallow breath she takes. “Starlight, _please_ , look at me,” he pleads (and he never pleads, never begs, but for her, he will) and finally, mercifully, she complies.

Opens her eyes and they are no longer glittering, no longer gleaming — their golden hue is muted, dulled, and something inside of him shatters, cracks right down to the marrow.

No, _no_ , this is wrong, all wrong.

That haze burns now, stings the corner of his eyes, and Mason blinks; once, twice, then three more times, and still it continues, grows stronger.

And he tries not to think of the liquid spilling over his fingers, viscous, searing. Tries not to picture the stain it leaves, one he knows will never wash away, no matter how hard he scrubs and scrubs. She has left plenty of marks on him, visible and unseen, but this is one he does not want, would erase if he could.

She smiles, tender and raw and quivering, but it does not reach her eyes. And he wants to rage, to scream and scream until nothing remains in him, but nothing comes out. It buds and blooms in his chest, but turns to vines in his throat, tangle into a thorny mess, and he chokes on them, on all the things he has yet to say.

“Mason—” she coughs, a splash of red lingers near the corner of her lips, stark against fair skin, “my dearest, _philtatos_ ,” her voice is distant, an echo, and it is the Greek that does it, this language he once claimed as his own but is now little more than a stranger. 

Reaches inside of him and coils around his heart; scorches the roots she planted, burns the flowers to ash.

But he knows this word — has heard her whisper it in the dark, a breath between them, a secret they share — and something wet spills down his face, leaves a searing trail behind, and he cannot identify the broken noise that pours from his lips, only that it is pathetic, desperate.

“Tell the girls—”

“Tell them yourself,” he growls, but there is no malice in it, no strength, only despair.

Her hand at his cheek, icy to the touch, and fingers tracing the constellations on his cheeks. “You know I can’t,” and there is no fear in her tone, only certainty, only love.

And he knows she’s right. Damn her, but she is always right, and this is too much, he cannot do this, cannot — 

“Mason, it’s okay.”

No, it is not okay, none of this is okay.

But he cannot find the words, cannot force them out past the garden now growing in his throat, and this is nothing new, this inability to speak. A flaw of his, one she understands, respects, loves. 

His lips find hers and they are so cold, too cold, but he kisses her anyway. Pours all that he can into it, into her — hopes that maybe, just maybe, he can trade places with her; he will gladly give himself to the cold and dark if it means keeping her here.

They need her far more than they could ever need him.

But he pulls away and there is red on his lips and she is so very still and in the end, it matters little.

She falls, and his world falls with her.


	4. things you said as you caressed my cheek

Moments like these are his favorite.

He is strewn out on the too-bright couch, one arm tossed over the back and the other tucked loosely around Cordelia, nestled between his long legs, her back pressing firmly into his chest. Mason buries his face in fiery locks, inhales — drowns in a sea of lavender and rosewater, fresh and sweet, enticing in a way that tugs at his heart — and hears her pause mid-sentence, heart fluttering in her chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling aren’t I?” A hint of laughter in her words, but a dash of worry lingers just under the surface.

It pricks at him, burrows along the cracks in his ribs and he frowns, wants to dig it out. Leaves it, instead, and tilts his head, placing a kiss at the delicate point of her ear. She shivers in his hold, wriggles, and he holds her tighter. “Yeah, but it’s fine,” he murmurs, lips trailing down her jaw, “I like when you ramble, sweetheart.”

And he does, truly.

Sure, he may not always follow the stream of words entirely — that mind of hers is ever-flowing, quick as lightning, weaving through idea after idea — but he loves it, loves _her_. Mason thinks he could listen to her for hours, just let the passion in her voice curl around him like a warm blanket, soothing.

Cordelia hums. Traces a finger along the back of his hand — now it’s his turn to shiver, her touch sending ripples of warmth skittering all through him — and she begins connecting the freckles there, draws little constellations between the markings. “So says the man who forbade me from talking about my favorite topic,” she teases, tossing him a glance over her shoulder, “and rather rudely, too.”

He snorts, a rumbling noise that causes her to giggle. “Well you shouldn’t have gotten high and talked about black holes for hours, I didn’t need to know _that_ much about them.”

“Mason, even if the black hole at the center of our galaxy becomes a problem, it won’t be for — ”

A finger at her lips and she goes quiet, stills. He can feel her smiling and he carves a path along her mouth, knows the curve of it by heart. Drags his finger up and away, sweeps it over her cheek, the starbursts that lie there. She turns, wriggles, and moves until she is facing him, palms firm atop his shoulders.

Her kiss is honey flowing over his tongue, satin soft and tasting of _home_. Spills into him like wine, rich and cloyingly sweet, and he falls into it, into her.

Fingers splay along the nape of his neck, toying with dark strands, twirling and caressing. Her hand cradles his cheek, holds him as if he were some precious thing, worthy of love and care. Even after all this time, so many kisses exchanged and nights spent together, her touch is enough to make him weak, reduce him down to the rawest of emotions, laid bare for her.

And each time, she tends to them gently. Plucks them up tenderly and tucks them back into him, puts him back together, better than he was.

It strikes him, as her tongue slicks over his own and she swallows his moan — a rough thing, deep and jagged — that he wants this forever, in every sense of the word. All of it; every little moment and experience, so long as she is there, so long as it’s with her.

They have an eternity, and he wants to spend all of it with her.

Mason breaks the kiss — but still, his lips chase her own, a flower seeking the sun — and presses his forehead into her own, draws her close. Until their breaths mingle and become one, intertwined. Her eyes open and he is lost amidst a field of gold, a sky at dawn, glittering and gleaming.

In his chest, his heart pounds; beats against his ribs, and he fights to unravel the words that have tangled in his throat. Now, it has to be now.

“Marry me.”

Those too-gold eyes go wide and she is so very still, breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, Mason worries. Has he overstepped? _Fuck_ , does she even want that sort of thing? He’s never given it much thought, never cared enough to even consider, but for her…

But then she smiles and suddenly that gaze is warm, molten, and blazing. Pours into her cheeks, a flood of scarlet that stains her cheeks rosy, engulfs the freckles, and she is crying, he realizes, tears falling like rain, and he reaches for her. Tries to catch each drop, but misses more than a few, and chuckles.

“Crying wasn’t really the intended side effect, Starlight,” he whispers, only to grunt as her arms fly around his neck and she buries her face against the hollow of his collarbone. 

Lips form the word _yes_ over and over, a whisper spoken into his skin, and something within his chest bursts to life. Seeds planted there suddenly flower and bloom, engulf his heart, leaves him dizzy and off-balance, the world tilting on its axis. He is lost now, adrift in an ocean of the unknown, but he knows there is no reason to worry.

She is here, and she will not let him drown.

Cordelia pulls back, rubbing at her eyes, and he gets an idea. Or, half of one, but it’s enough. Fiddles with the cords looped around his wrist and manages to slip one off. Reaches for her, fingers lacing through her own, and tugs her arm toward him, ignoring her look of confusion. Watches, out of the corner of his eye, as it fades into understanding, the leather secured into place around her own wrist.

It’s no fancy ring, but he hopes it will do.

Her fingers trail across the dark cord and there is so much love in her eyes when she looks at him that it threatens to overwhelm him, to drag him under and when her mouth meets his, it’s like their first kiss all over again.

Only this time, he knows for certain that it won’t be their last.


	5. a garden of her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt on tumblr: "a kiss on the back of the neck", featuring baby Orion!

When he wakes, he is alone.

The spot beside him is cool, any vestiges of her warmth fading quickly. Mason groans and reaches for it, fingers bunching in the smooth fabric, seeking her. But of course, she isn’t there, and so he sighs, forces his eyes open, lips twisting into a frown.

Shadows engulf the room, curtains drawn in close and tight to block out the moonlight, and for a moment, he lingers. Allows his senses to calm — easier now, years of her presence to help soothe him, to teach him how to soften the world, and of course, her scent is all around him, a blanket — and listens, simply listens. It takes only a brief second, a heartbeat, or perhaps two, and then he hears it, hears her.

Her voice is soft, a melody. It sinks into him, nestles in deep between the marrow and bone and he is already a garden of her. Seeds planted over their many years, grown into flowers and trees, a testament to the life she has given him. 

One of color and beauty and peace, things he long thought lost to him, found somehow. Her gift to him, one of many.

She begins to sing, lilting words in a tender language — Welsh, he recognizes it, cannot fit all the words together but gathers the meaning, the intent — and it is this which draws him from the bed. Pulls him to his feet, pants loose and hair a mess, and out of the room.

His steps are silent as he passes over the plush carpet, pads out into the darkened corridor and down until he reaches a blue door, the color of a robin’s egg.

Littered with golden stars and planets, childish handprints in messy paint. He smiles, traces one with his finger, and basks in the warm glow pouring out through the space left open.

It is easy enough to slip inside, and there she is.

Bathed in amber, she glows. Fiery hair spills down her back in waves and curls, catching in the light, turning molten. She is dressed simply, a lilac gown made of silk and leaving her legs bare, stopping just above the knees. Mason likes that gown, loves the way it slides between his fingers and glides along her skin, color soft against her rosy flush.

Cordelia sways, rocks side to side, motions gentle as waves and he is still smiling, heart swelling at the sight of her. Of them.

A pair of too-gold eyes, identical to her own, glittering and gleaming and speckled with green, meet his silvery gaze across the room. Orion coos, cubby hand pushing through her hair to wave, and as those stubby fingers wriggle wildly at him, Mason cannot help but wave back. The action causes the boy to giggle, cheeks staining pink, and now he is warm, content.

Strange, how these little lives can do that to him.

“I am trying to put him to sleep,” Cordelia sighs, but the smile dancing on her lips and the affection in her tone betrays her true mood. 

She turns to look at him, and Mason finds himself grateful that he doesn’t need to breathe, else the air would be stolen from his lungs. And a thought tries to rear its head, traitorous, unwelcome.

_How did I come to deserve this?_

_Because you are worth it, because you are loved_ , and this voice is hers, a gentle whisper, sunlight breaking through the clouds.

Mason crosses the room and settles into place behind her, arms winding around her middle, careful of the boy in her hold. Burrows his way past the red locks and presses a kiss to the back of her neck, feels her shiver, melting into him.

“Did we wake you?”

“No,” and it’s a lie, but one he doesn’t mind, one he knows she won’t call him out on.

Little fingers pat at his cheek and he chuckles, allows the boy his fun, knows it calms him in a way. Studies him, instead, this child he helped create. Orion is a perfect mix of them — Cordelia’s eyes and his thick, dark locks, starbursts scattered on every patch of skin — and it strikes him, not for the first time, how much he loves this little boy.

How much he loves this little family, one all his own.

She yawns, a quiet little thing, and he smirks, drops a kiss to her cheek, at the corner of her lips, and can feel her smile. “Here, I’ll take him, you go back to sleep.”

“Are you sure?” But the gratitude is clear. 

Mason nods, and it takes only a little maneuvering to shift the boy from her arms to his, pudgy cheek pressing into his shoulder. “You’ve been working non-stop on that planetarium of yours, you’re exhausted,” and she is, though she loves it and he loves it for her, even if he hates how little rest she gets because of it.

“It’s almost done,” she soothes and leans up, her kiss featherlight, a promise.

“I know, now go,” and he tosses in a growl, one that only serves to make her smile as the boy in his grasp giggles and he won’t lie, it’s a little disheartening not to be the scary one anymore.

She leaves reluctantly, more kisses — for him, for the boy — and he waits until he hears her climb back into bed, sheets rustling and her sigh of relief, before he heads to the rocking chair near the bay window.

Makes himself comfortable, Orion nestled in his lap and allows himself a moment to bask in this. In the quiet of their home — three little heartbeats he knows well, the cadence of his wife’s breathing — and the nightly symphony, crickets and owls and nature, no longer jarring, a pleasurable hum.

Looks down at his son, fingers carding through his hair, and smiles, that dazzling grin reflected back like the sun.

“All right Oreo, it’s just us men now,” two little hands pat at his stomach, one after the other, “so let’s see who falls asleep first, hm? Loser has to listen to Luna sing that dam—darn song of hers again, deal?” 

And if Cordelia finds them in the morning, Mason sprawled in the chair, long limbs dangling over the sides awkwardly, and Orion cuddled on his chest, thumb in his mouth, well, she knows better than to wake them right away.


	6. green in your gaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a micro-prompt on tumblr.

Contrary to popular opinion, Cordelia _likes_ paperwork. 

For her, the task is oddly soothing. Tina continually balks at the notion, treats the very _idea_ of paperwork like a plague. Something to be avoided. Horrible and despised. Yet, there is a comfort in the tedium, and Cordelia enjoys it.

Her companion, however, does not.

They are sitting face to face, cross-legged on the floor of the common room. Piles of papers lay strewn about them — his messy, hers tidy — and between the two of them, they have made quite a dent from where they originally started. Aside from the shuffling and rustling of papers, the room is quiet. Still and calm.

Until suddenly, it isn’t.

Mason growls. “Thought the Agency had people whose whole fucking jobs deal with doing this shit,” his voice is like thunder, deep and rumbling. 

“Maybe they’re busy?”

“Or Ava just wants to punish us,” he grumbles, snatching another file from the unsorted pile. Mason skims the page, expression bored and lips twisted into a scowl, and then down it goes. Lands precariously atop the ‘finished’ pile, and she _almost_ winces, at the state of the stack.

Wants to reach out and fix it, fingers twitching with the urge, but stops herself.

Cordelia smiles, instead. “I’m sure that isn’t the reason and besides, I do believe she assigned the task to me alone, you didn’t have to join me,” she teases, not missing the way he tenses — briefly, a barely-there motion — before it is gone, his form relaxing. “If I recall correctly,” she adds, tapping a nail against her chin, “you _offered_ to help me.”

To be honest, she knows the reason perfectly well. With Ava busy in a meeting, there had been no one left to handle this job. Felix would never hold out to do it, might last ten minutes before his mind wandered and he along with it. And Nat, well, much as she too seems to enjoy the comfort of mundane tasks, her organizational skills leave much to be desired.

One day, _someone_ — and of course, she definitely _doesn’t_ mean herself — will have to introduce the Dewey decimal system to her library.

He snorts, but then he is looking up. Away from the papers and the words and at her, eyes like a winter sky fixing her to the spot. The intensity of his gaze steals her breath, makes something catch like a hook in her chest, and all too suddenly, her throat is dry, heart fluttering against her ribs.

Amazing, really, how even now he can elicit such a response with only a single look.

And he knows it too, the jerk. His lips curl into a familiar smirk, wolfish and sharp, and he leans forward. “Maybe I just wanted to spend time with you, sweetheart.”

“I — ”

“And anyway,” he continues, voice dropping to a low purr, “it’s better if I help, the faster we’re done, the faster we can have some fun.”

Heat spills through her veins like a flood. Stains her cheeks and leaves her entirely too warm, too aware. No need to ask what he means, she knows perfectly well what type of _fun_ he’s referring to. Can see it in his eyes, bright and devouring and beautiful.

A hand brushes her knee and oh, when did he get even _closer_?

Long, freckled fingers ghost up her leg, featherlight and curious. Nails graze her flesh, create ripples of goosebumps in their wake, and she bites her lip. Digs her teeth in and swallows a moan, pulse spiking, thundering. She _almost_ regrets wearing shorts as her gaze falls to his hand, tanned skin stark against her own fair hue, as he continues his journey.

Up and up and up, insistent and laser-focused.

She reaches down and takes hold of his wrist, halting his movements. Hears him chuckle and it echoes through her, sends little eruptions pricking along her skin. Flames coil tightly in her stomach and then spread, lower and lower, pooling at her center.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?”

“We have to finish this, and I’m not about to let you distract me.” Cordelia can hear the way her voice shakes, can feel the smile on her lips. The words are a half-truth, spoken out of necessity rather than a want. 

What she _wants_ is to crawl into his lap and close the distance between them. To drink in the flavor of him, heady and rich and comforting, a taste that lingers. Hands mapping every expanse of one another, familiar pathways and trails. Counting and connecting the constellations on his skin.

It is, clearly, a sentiment he shares.

Mason breaks her hold easily. Slips from her grasp like water to lean forward and then, there is no distance. She can track his motions now, eyes keen and alert, but the grace of him never fails to amaze her. 

And the feel of his mouth on hers never fails to spark a wildfire inside of her.

Her lips part willingly, invitingly, and his tongue slicks over her own. The taste of him — clove and chocolate and a hint of smoke, lightly burning — is overwhelming, leaves her dizzy and aching, desire glowing through her. 

A hand settles at her hip. Warm fingers splay wide, hold her firmly, and when she gasps, he snarls. She swallows the sound, makes it a part of herself. It is so very easy, she finds, to fall into his gravity. Drawn into his orbit, blanketed by his heat and light and love, quiet and subtle as it is. 

Mason hasn’t said the words yet, but then, she hardly needs him to. She hears them in every kiss and touch. Knows it in the way he stays with her, allows himself to intertwine, and become a part of her life.

Words are pretty, but actions mean so much more, and Mason practically shouts his feelings for her with every move he makes.

He pulls back and she chases him. Tugs his bottom lip between her teeth and Mason growls, low and hungry. “What did you say again, about distractions?”

“You started it,” she shoots back, breathless, and he smirks.

But then, the mood breaks. Shifts and changes, falling around them like rain, and now his smirk is a scowl, his hackles all but raised, and the distance between them returns. Mason leans away from her, taking his touch and his warmth along with him, and she shivers, missing the proximity, the closeness of him. Longs to reach for him again, to bring him back, but of course, she doesn’t.

She knows the reason for his reaction before they even arrive.

The door swings open, nearly bouncing off its hinges and stopping inches from the wall. A figure looms in the space, tall and broad-shouldered, large but never intimidating — no, the grin he wears sees to that. Bright and open, a flash of white teeth. Brown eyes so dark they could be black land on her and, somehow, the smile widens.

“Ginger!” His thick arms extend, open wide and he tosses her a wink, each word coated in the twang of his accent. “I knew I smelled you!”

It is hard to contain her own smile and she pushes herself up, off the floor, and onto her feet. Turns toward him and pauses, a moment of hesitation stopping her. She glances down, toward Mason, but he is focused exclusively on the papers now, gaze so sharp she worries it might rip them to shreds. Cordelia sighs — his reaction is hardly surprising, unfortunately — but presses on, and soon, she is enveloped in a tight embrace.

Strong arms encircle her waist, holding close and tight, and she hooks her own around his neck. He hoists her up, feet dangling off the floor, and she laughs, only for the sound to turn into a shriek. The room begins to spin and all she can see is a blur of red, hair flying around her like a banner.

Off behind her — or to her left, or maybe her right, it’s hard to tell while the world is in motion — she hears a soft growl. Maaka hears it as well and, when he finally sets her down, he is smirking. Only a little, a tiny curve at the corner of his mouth, but noticeable all the same. Cordelia lets out a huff, vision whirling about, colors and shapes blending together, and gives his arm a swat.

Which really, is like swatting at a boulder, but it makes _her_ feel better.

“You could warn a lady before you pick her up and swing her about,” she jests, hands raising to try and fix her hair, smoothing and tucking down stray strands.

Maaka laughs, deep and rumbling. “The surprise is part of the appeal, Ginger.”

His tone is light, teasing, and Cordelia cannot help but laugh once more. Maaka flirts with her endlessly, shamelessly, but she knows it is fueled only by friendship — well, that, and a desire to annoy Mason — and she is happy to indulge it, to a degree.

It’s fun, easy, and harmless. But, she is careful to walk a fine line; understands that it bothers Mason, even if he won’t admit it, and she has no desire to hurt him, intentionally or not.

Once her head stops spinning, she takes a small step back and smiles, craning her head back to look up at him. “What are you doing back in Wayhaven? Is something wrong?”

“Hm? Oh, no, nothing so dire!” He chuckles, dark eyes flicking toward the silent figure sitting behind her, and his lips twitch. “We’re in the next town over, but we’ve dealt with the issue and since we’ll be a few more days, paperwork and all that crap, Lesedi said I could stop by, to see my favorite Bravo member.”

A loud scoff echoes from behind her. “We’re trying to get some work done,” Mason snaps, words little more than a growl.

“Didn’t know you actually worked, figured you were always too busy brooding in a corner.”

Paper rustles behind her, crinkling, and she waits, breath caught in her throat, for the inevitable rip. It never comes, mercifully — she does _not_ want to explain that to Ava — and instead, something round and white zips past her head. 

The paper ball smacks Maaka in the chest, bounces off, and falls, landing at his feet.

“Go on boy, be a good mutt and chase the ball.”

“I would if you didn’t throw for shit.”

Cordelia groans, pinching the bridge of her nose, and when Maaka takes a step forward, to curve around her, she reaches for him. Lays a hand against his arm and tries to smile. “We _are_ busy,” she admits as he goes still, “and we need to get this done, or Ava won’t be happy.”

The werewolf snorts. “Is she ever happy?”

“How about we meet up for lunch before you leave?” She opts to ignore the comment about Ava, not in the mood for that particular can of worms.

He considers her offer with mock seriousness, fingers rubbing at his chin before he seemingly accepts her olive branch and nods. Twists back toward her and ducks low, giving her cheek a quick peck that earns another thundering growl behind her.

“All right, Ginger! It’s a date, then!”

Maaka tosses one final look toward Mason and then he’s leaving, strolling out the door and whistling all the while.

After he is gone, she closes the door behind him and bends down, plucking the crumpled ball of paper off the floor. Smooths it out, best as she can, and makes her way back to Mason, who is once again focused entirely on the rest of the files, expression dark.

Cordelia kneels beside him and gently, carefully, returns the page to the proper stack. He is tense, shoulders stiff, and instead of returning to her original spot, she lingers.

Takes a seat beside him and smiles, or tries to. “I thought your throw was quite good, you know.”

“Sure you don’t want to chase after your little doggy, have that lunch now,” he mutters, tone dark as a storm and low as distant thunder.

She frowns, brow arching. “I’m sorry?”

“Just saying, no need to stay here if you want to go hang out with the furball instead.”

Oh. His tone straddles the line between bored and angry and yet, she giggles. Leans over and nudges his shoulder with her own, barely enough to make him budge. “Are you jealous?”

Mason snorts, so loud the floor seems to shake beneath them. “Hardly,” he mumbles, gray eyes sliding toward her for a moment only to dart away, “I don’t do jealousy, sweetheart.” It’s a lie, she can tell, but she decides to let him have it.

Reaches out, instead, and takes his hand in both of her own. Lifts it to her lips and places a kiss against his knuckles, aware of the way he shivers, light as a whisper. 

“Good,” she says, quietly, “because I’m afraid my heart is already spoken for.” 

When he looks at her, his eyes are bright, shining like silver, and her heart stutters. Black, messy hair frames the lean angles of his face and she is struck, yet again, by the beauty of him. Mason studies her, searches her face for a truth she cannot hide, and he softens, the storm passing. 

“That so? Anyone I should worry about?”

“Oh, most definitely,” she laughs, thumb rubbing circles along the back of his hand, “he’s quite dangerous, though I know deep down he’s sweeter than he likes to admit. Very powerful, devastatingly handsome and — ” 

Lips crash against her own, soft yet utterly consuming, and when he smiles into the kiss, she is lost. 

His arm curls around her waist, hand settling at the small of her back, and the touch is scorching, electric. Mason nudges her down, lowers them to the floor, and she reaches for him, fingers bunching into the soft fabric of his shirt. He licks into her mouth, tongue tangling with her own, and the kiss deepens, turns hungry, ravenous.

Distantly, she hears the unwelcome sound of papers scattering, but then his hands are under her shirt and his fingertips are skimming over her abdomen, up her sternum, and suddenly, nothing else matters.


	7. brilliant and blazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt fill, this is **smut**.

Cordelia supposes that in the end, she has only herself to blame for being in this predicament. Though truly, how could she have known his simple request to _try something new_ would involve… this?

The room is warm — too warm, suffocating, overwhelming — and alive with a heat that is almost electric. It crackles over her bare skin, skitters down her spine and through her nerves, and she shivers, gasps. Hands settle at her waist, fingers curling under her ribs, and tighten, hold her fast. 

Mason rests behind her and she is nestled between his spread legs atop her own bed, the sheets almost too cool against her burning flesh. Unlike her, he is still wearing his clothing — soft, black sweatpants, and a shirt she swore she stole from him earlier, a rich maroon color, beautiful against his darker skin — and yet, even with the fabric separating them, she can feel him.

Scorching like a supernova, brilliant and blazing.

“I think this was a mistake,” she murmurs, voice cracking at the edges, words a broken whisper. Lips carve a meandering path along the curve of her neck, lingering in the hollow crook of her shoulder, and his kisses are like fiery brands, each one a flame licking at her skin in the most delightful of ways. “Mason, I don’t know if — ”

He hums, and the sound is enough to make her throat go dry. “Do you have any idea how fucking gorgeous you are, Starlight?” The pet name, rare and precious, settles over her, soothes her fraying nerves. Fingers glide up her side, featherlight as they pass over her abdomen and between the slopes of her breasts, teasing in their touch, never lingering, never faltering. They curl around her chin, firm yet somehow gentle — Mason is nothing, if not a man of contradictions — and he lifts her head, tilts it back, and forces her gaze forward, to the sight she has been avoiding.

Herself.

The mirror is not new, an antique she bought ages ago on a whim and never set up, kept hidden away in her closet. Now it sits at the foot of her bed, angled just so, putting them both in full view. She is on display, open and parted for him, and this is new, unfamiliar, like nothing she has ever done before.

His eyes are hungry as they soak in the sight of her, every inch. “I want you to see this, sweetheart,” and oh, how his voice is like satin, smooth and purring, flows over her like honey. “To see the way you look as I touch you,” his fingers leave her chin and travel down, trace a roving pathway to her breast where they curl, thumb rolling over her nipple, “to see the way you look as I drive you over the edge, as you unravel in my arms.”

Below, his other hand moves — refuses to be left idle, forgotten, abandoned — and slots itself between her open legs, freckled fingers landing at their mark with easy precision. She watches, unable to look away, as they slide between her folds and the touch is searing, voltaic, every sensation intensified by the sight.

Her lips part and his name slips out, cool and slick as water. Cordelia repeats it like a prayer, a litany, a call for salvation, and he answers each one with yet more touches. Sheathes his fingers inside of her, up to the knuckle, and his thrusts are slow, languid, careful. Mason leaves a trail of kisses — tongue and teeth and passion — along her neck, over her jaw, and down to her shoulders.

Catches each freckle and connects the invisible lines between them, forms galaxies upon her skin, constellations he creates and names. 

A part of her wants to look away, but she is entranced by the sight of herself, of her body yielding so willingly to him. Her fair skin is flushed rosy pink, cheeks burning bright, and red hair a messy cascade, wisps brushing against him. She looks wild, almost — a wildfire in the form of a woman, something not quite mortal (and of course, she isn’t, not now) — and it should terrify her, or shame her, but it only excites her.

Inside of her, his fingers curve, splay out and bow upward, and her pleas turn to cries.

His thumb swirls at her clit and she starts, body taut, vision going white at the edges. “That’s it, sweetheart,” his mouth is at her ear, tone rough and heady, raw with lust, “look at how beautiful you are, fucking stunning,” and she can take it no more, can no longer fight the urge. 

Turns her head and captures his mouth with her own and his reaction is immediate. The kiss is devouring, tongues slicking over one another and warring for dominance, breath hot and damp as it mingles, as they share the air between them. Mason kisses her like a man dying of thirst, as if he might find salvation in her mouth, and she answers in earnest, licks into him, tastes every inch of him.

She is so close now, his hands and mouth working in tandem to destroy her, to tear her apart at the seams. Cordelia breaks the kiss and he chases her mouth, drags her bottom lip between his teeth, and when her eyes open, he stares at her, eyes like a winter storm engulfing her. 

Holds his gaze with her own, steady and sure and oh, the emotions in those eyes could drown her, if she lets them. And she will, of course she will — she falls into him daily, settles in his heart and carves a place for herself inside of his soul. Entwines herself around him, until they are not two but one, halves made whole.

Mason bumps his nose against hers, foreheads slick with sweat and pressing in close, freckle against freckle. “Watch, Cordelia,” he urges, and her name sounds holy, passing through his lips, “I don’t want you to miss a moment, sweetheart.”

And she obeys, because of course she does, what other choice does she have? Helpless, as always, against the pull of him. Turns her gaze back to the mirror, to this vision of herself, familiar and yet entirely unknown. Mason presses his cheek against her own, pace increasing and yet he looks peaceful, eyes fluttering closed, lashes tickling her skin.

Ethereal, vulnerable, at ease. Something far beyond her grasp and yet, here he sits, with her. Choosing her, always and forever.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” a whisper, pleading and desperate, more beautiful than any song.

And she does, because how can she not? Stars explode in her vision, the world blinding, dazzling and gleaming, and she falls. Teeters off the edge and plummets down into that great, yawning chasm of pleasure.

But he is, as always, there to catch her.


	8. taught me the courage of stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt fill, inspired by the song 'saturn' from sleeping at last.

_I am dying_ , she realizes, slowly, and allows herself a moment to reckon with the fact.

It feels peaceful. A comfort, almost, and she wonders — distantly, thoughts little more than echoes, whispers on the wind — why they always made such a fuss in the cinema. She does not feel fear or pain, her wounds no longer ache and it is a bit like floating, she finds. Body numb, languid, blood cooling in her veins and each heartbeat is distinct now, recognizable to her own ears.

She is dying, and she is not afraid.

Hands frame her face, sweep over her cheeks and across her eyelashes. Press into her, firm and insistent, but their warmth is fading, flickering out. Like her own, and it is that thought, above all else, that causes her grief.

Because he is dying too, and she never wanted that.

“Hey, sweetheart,” his voice is a lifeline, a tether to pull her back from the bring, if only for a few moments longer. She looks up and finds his gaze on her, eyes like a winter sky watching her — what once used to be vibrant silver is a dull gray — and it breaks her heart, to see the pain swirling within them.

To know that she is the cause of it. 

She will be gone before him, it is simply a fact, and she hates that, more than anything else.

 _Never shall I be parted from your side_ , she had promised him that one evening so many years ago, as the moon rose high in the sky and the stars twinkled to life, as his lips met her own and they joined as one. A vow, solemn and true, and here she is, breaking it.

“Cordelia,” and her name is a prayer, a plea. It tugs at her heart, coils deep in her chest. Settles against her chest, presses tightly against her ribs, and it is heavy, beautiful, sorrowful. Those fingers thread into her hair, featherlight, and she tries to speak, tries to say anything, but the words are thick as honey, stuck in her throat. “Cordelia, please, _Starlight_ , answer me,” he sounds so broken, so utterly desperate, and this is not him, she knows. His voice is meant to be courage, rich resolve steeped in a low fire. 

_I would like to hear him like that, just one last time_ … “Please, goddamnit, say something.”

There is strength left in her, an ounce or two, and she calls it forth. Lifts her arm, shaking, and drags the back of her own hand across his cheek, tries — and fails — to trace a map of the constellations that litter his skin. “I’m here, Mason,” she sounds faraway, long and gone and done, and she tries to smile. 

Hopes she manages it, but cannot be sure.

Mason leans into her touch, eyes fluttering shut, and she can feel something warm splash against her finger, but her vision is blurring at the edges, renders her unable to tell what it might have been. Is it raining? Perhaps, but she hears no thunder.

“I’m sorry,” the apology is choked, strangled like vines in his throat, and he bows forward, body giving way to pain or grief or both. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t — ”

“I love you.” They are the only words that matter now, and so with what little clarity she can muster, she says them. Feels him go still as stone, breath ghosting along her lips, and hums. Soaks in the sight of him, knows that soon it will be gone.

Just like her. Just like him. Just like them.

A kiss to her lips, soft as satin, barely there, and those eyes on hers again, pulling her into their orbit. “I love you too,” and there is a finality in the words, lovely as they are. She has never demanded the words from him — has always known, in all the little ways he showed her, gestures of love that meant so much — but to hear them now, one last time, it is a gift.

“Papa told me once, so long ago, that when we die, we become stars,” she tells him, unbidden, her mind untangling, unraveling at the seams. “Do you think we’ll become a constellation? Perhaps one day, people will create myths for us.”

Mason laughs, a quiet thing, cracking and not quite right. Another splash of something warm and wet drops onto her cheek, slides down, and she swears she tastes salt, but everything is getting darker now. Maybe she is already becoming a star? “Yeah, sweetheart, if anyone’s going to be stuck up in that dark sky for eternity, it’ll be you.”

“And you’ll be with me?”

“Always.”

He is growing fainter now, harder to see, and she blinks, struggles to make him out amidst the shadows that crowd her vision. Fear, finally, grips her — this is it, this is the last time she will ever see him, will ever hear him or touch him or — 

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he is closer now, inches from her, body pressing into her own, “I’ll always be here.”

And she knows he means it, can hear the truth in his words.

But she, it seems, can be here no more.

 _I am dying_ , she accepts, calmly, and prays that his star will join her own, in the sky she loves so dearly, but not nearly as much as she loves him.


	9. quiet moments in the calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt request, concerning Mason and his kids.

It’s during times like these, nestled here in quiet little moments, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, that Mason finds himself wonderstruck by how very _different_ his life is, now.

A hundred years and more he has lived. Seen and experienced more than he can recount — knows that what he _can_ barely scratch the surface, memories still are hidden away in the dusty corners of his mind, fragmented echoes not quite ready to reveal themselves — and yet, he doubts that any of it could have fully prepared him for the life he now lives.

For the family, he now calls his own.

And isn’t that a strange little word, family? Before he used to be content alone — oh, sure, he had the team, a different sort of family in their own way — with only himself for company, broken occasionally by a pretty face here or there, but the idea of that lifestyle now is almost foreign. 

Distant and far-removed, a hazy and dark _once_ that no longer feels right. 

Instead of shadows and solitude, he sits amidst light and company. Lives intertwine with his own, each one putting down roots deep in his heart and now they bloom, four flowering trees that grow taller and fuller with each passing day. Sometimes, it’s overwhelming and terrifying. Wakes him in the middle of the night, gripped by an icy panic, and Mason fears he might unravel at the seams, come apart under the weight of it all.

Fears he might go mad from the knowledge that his life is no longer his own. It belongs, now, to _them_ , and perhaps he should resent it — resent _them_ — but he doesn’t, he can’t.

Because no matter how scary it is, no matter how often it steals the air from his lungs and leaves him off-balance, scrambling to right himself, he’s also happy. A strange feeling, one that coils around his heart and settles just under his ribs; spreads and spreads and spreads, until he is warm and glowing and no longer afraid.

He’s happy. So, maybe, the fear isn’t of them, or the feelings they awake in him — maybe, instead, it’s of _losing_ it all, of seeing it slip through his fingers like sand. Mason doesn’t fear much, but that thought alone is enough to send a shiver of dread zigzagging up and down his spine.

Or, maybe he can blame _that_ sensation on the pair of little hands currently woven into his hair.

If he’d known waking up this morning that he would be sitting here, spending his Saturday morning in the den and getting a makeover he never asked for, he might have stayed in bed. _Not like that would have stopped them_ , he scoffs, the notion ridiculous. Once his kids have their minds fixed on a goal, there’s no stopping them.

Mason blames _that_ on Cordelia. He’s too damn lazy, for it to be from him — or, that’s what he tells himself, anyway.

The room is peaceful, bathed in a soft, golden hue. Sunlight cascades in through the large bay window just ahead, curtains pulled aside and tied off neatly. Dapples of light fall across the carpet, little flickering specks that dance and sway in the corner of his eyes. It’s still early morning — just half-past nine, a glance toward the clock tells him — and normally, this would be too much; too bright and warm, and yet, it isn’t. 

A blanket of calm settles over him. Dulls the senses and blunts the edges and he feels loose, relaxed. 

They get _that_ from their mother too, it seems.

So, here he is. A predator, a _vampire_ , meant to hunt and kill and destroy, lounging on a large, plush couch at half-past nine on a Saturday morning. Flanked on both sides by his daughters, their fingers working tirelessly amid his dark locks, tugging and twirling and braiding. In his lap, Orion rocks side to side, arms locked around Mason’s own, carefully (or, as carefully as a four-year-old can manage) applying a coat of nail polish.

It’s a dark, black-purple color; full of glitter and odorless, meant for Cordelia, but graciously loaned by his absent wife.

Absent because she is currently hidden safely away in her study just down the hall, nose buried in paperwork and star charts. _Lucky_ , he muses, able to recall with clarity the way she abandoned him to his sorrowful fate, hiding a smile behind her hand and urging them all to have fun.

Well, that’s fine. Mason has plans for her later, once the kids are in bed and asleep and it’s just the two of them.

“Papa!” For a split second, Luna sounds just like her mother, and it’s enough to drag him back to reality. “You keep moving your head!”

Mason grunts. Slides his gaze to the right and finds Luna watching him, ashen eyes a mirror of his own, lips tugged into a scowl he’s all too familiar with. She is, like her siblings, still in her nightclothes and her own hair — the same fiery red as her mother’s — is pulled up, into a messy set of what Cordelia affectionately calls _moon buns_. 

It should be impossible for anyone — and most of all a nine-year-old — with a hairstyle like _that_ to look intimidating, but she pulls it off rather well. He’s actually kind of proud, to be honest.

“Right, sorry,” and he is, which really is the biggest surprise of all.

On his left, Lyra hums and leans over, short arms reaching for the pile of small, plastic flowers lying on the coffee table. She wobbles, face framed by short, copper strands, and he watches keenly. Ready to catch her, if she falls, but his worry is unfounded. 

Instead, she successfully plucks a tiny green flower from the disorderly stack and returns to her position, grinning brightly. Takes the half-finished braid she’s been working on in hand and begins to weave the blossom through the knots, swaying to a song in her head, little tongue poking out the corner of her mouth as she concentrates.

Below, he feels a puff of air drift across his hand as Orion begins to blow at the polish. It’s a mess — he’s got more paint on his skin than his nails, by this point — but then the boy looks up, amber eyes (the same as his mother, big and brilliant, a hook in his heart) sparkling, and Mason can’t find it in himself to mind. Not when the kid looks so damn proud of himself, at least.

“It’s sparkly! See, Papa?” Orion takes hold of his hand and lifts it higher, so Mason might see it better.

He flexes his fingers, letting the glitter catch in the light. “Yep, real sparkly,” he agrees, and the affirmation causes the boy to giggle.

A jolt of pain crashes into him. Starts at his scalp and skitters down, through his shoulder blades and he grits his teeth, resists the urge to clench his fists. Luna gasps, but instead of an apology, she raises up to glare at her sister over his poor, sore head.

“Ly, stop taking hair from my side!”

“I’m not!”

“You are too!”

Each word is punctuated with another tug, another pull, and finally, he snaps. “Hey! My hair isn’t a fuc—fricking toy,” he growls, catching himself at the last minute, and they go silent, still as stone. Even Orion is quiet now, head tilted back to stare at him upside down, eyes wide and unblinking.

The calm lasts for all of two seconds before suddenly, the spell is broken. 

Orion is the one to do it. He smiles, flashing teeth, chubby cheeks dimpled and rosy. Laughter bubbles up from his chest, spills out, and rings through the air like a chime. Warm and infectious and soon, the twins are giggling too and Mason rolls his eyes. Tries, hard as he can, to ignore the stinging bruise now forming on his ego.

He remembers a time when a growl like that would strike fear into the hearts of anyone who heard it. Apparently, times have changed.

“Sorry, Papa,” their voices are a chorus in sync as they resume their work.

Over the next ten or so minutes, a quiet settles over the room. With each knot of the braid, the girls add more and more items — little fake flowers and silly plastic clips, an array of colors and shapes — and Orion leaves his fingers a glittery, sticky ruin. 

And he sits through it all, lets them have their fun, because even with the pain and the frustrating knowledge that he’s going to have to peel all of this off later, it’s worth it. 

They’re happy, and that’s all he wants for them.

Finally, the girls deem their work done. One final flower, courtesy of Lyra, and they’re gone. Climbing off the couch and hurrying around the table, side by side, eyes fixed on him. Hands at their hips, they study him carefully — heads tilting this way and that, in perfect sync — and then, they smile. Wide and toothy and Mason feels his heart clench, mind still reeling (even after all this time) at the fact _anyone_ might look at him like that.

Gazes full of love, complete and utter trust, open and genuine. It’s different, he realizes, from the way he feels when Cordelia looks at him; she has seen him at his worst, knows the shadows that lurk within him, the jagged and broken edges that still remain. And still, every day, she wakes up and chooses him — understands who and what he is, and loves him anyway.

Yet, none of that matters to these three. They only know him as Papa — and oh, how strange that is, to think he’d ever gladly take on such a title — and even with all of his missteps, the stumbles and hiccups along the way, they continue to love him. 

He doesn’t know if he deserves any of it, if he’s worthy of the love and trust they place in him, but he intends to try.

Mason clears his throat, attempts to work past the lump rising there, emotions building and forcing their way up. “So, do I meet your approval?” Orion remains in his lap, heels bouncing against his legs. Instinctively, he curls an arm round the boy’s middle.

“You look amazing, Papa!” Luna sticks out an arm, giving him a thumbs up and attempting to wink, but closes both eyes in the process.

Lyra nods her agreement, hands clasping together in front of her. “She’s right! You look very beautiful, Papa!”

Before he can respond, Luna pivots and cups her hands around her mouth, facing the hallway. “Mama! Come look at Papa, we’re all done!”

Oh, fuck.

Mason hears Cordelia respond, melodic voice muffled through a partially closed door. Then, footsteps; light against the plush carpet, feet bare and gliding down the hallway. And when she appears, rounds the corner and into the den, his heart flutters at the sight of her — all these years, and the reaction is always the same.

She looks comfortable. Red hair swept into a messy bun, fiery strands poking out here and there, and dressed in a simple pair of lavender-colored yoga pants, complemented by one of his shirts, too large on her smaller form. She looks beautiful. At home, here with him, peaceful and content.

One look is all it takes. Her reaction is immediate — full lips curving into a smile, one she quickly tries to hide with her hand, and shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. Sunlit eyes glitter and gleam as she takes in the sight of him, full of amusement yes, but also of love and joy and he can’t decide if he wants to melt or to growl, so instead he just tears his gaze away from her. Focuses on the boy in his arms, on the mess of dark waves atop his head.

He smells of apple blossoms and lavender, no doubt from the shampoo Cordelia uses on him.

“Well? He looks amazing, right!” Luna again, grinning ear to ear, and looking almost too proud of herself.

Cordelia slides her gaze from him to the girl, finally gaining enough self-control to let the hand fall, smile still firmly in place. “Yes, he looks quite handsome, you all did a fantastic job.” 

Each word is coated in stifled laughter, a giggle just on the tip of her tongue.

Mercifully, she takes pity on him and steps further into the room. Crosses the den and plucks Orion gently out of his lap, setting the boy onto the floor with a loud, smacking peck against his chubby cheek. “Why don’t you three go play outside, hm? I think Papa is beautiful enough, now.”

Gently, she takes the nail polish from Orion and sets it on the table as the boy turns, looking up at him. “You are pretty, Papa,” and then he’s gone, darting past Cordelia and around the table to his sisters. Lyra takes one hand, Luna the other, and together, the three head out, chattering all the while, arguing over what they might do first.

As soon as they’re alone, Cordelia breaks. Giggles fill the room, then turn to full-blown laughter, and he tries to glare, to maintain some sense of dignity, but then she lets out a quiet little snort and that’s it, that’s all it takes. He joins her, head falling back against the couch and it feels good to laugh, to let it out, loud and unapologetic. 

“Tell me the truth, sweetheart,” he manages, voice rumbling, “how ridiculous do I look?”

She hums, slotting herself between his open legs, sure and confident. Like she belongs there (and she does), like she’s meant to be there (and she is). Hands, gentle and warm and oh so soft, frame his face. Thumbs sweep over his cheeks, connecting the lines between the stars and constellations speckled along his flesh. He leans into the touch, into her, and looks up.

Grey on gold and _fuck_ , but the look on her face is enough to send his heart into a frenzy. It beats and pounds against his ribs, rattles the bones like a beast trying to escape. He reaches for her, settles his grip on her hips and tugs her closer, always closer.

“I was being honest, Dearest, I think you look very handsome.” She frees a hand to run her fingers along one of the braids, tapping a nail against one of the clips. “Butterflies are a good look on you, sunshine.”

Mason scoffs and tips forward, still not close enough. Rests his forehead against her sternum and just listens, to the sound of her heart; steady and soft, a rhythm etched into his soul, never to be forgotten. Tightens his hold on her, fingers drawing little circles along her hips before sliding them around the backs of her thighs. 

“Go ahead and joke Starlight, but I’ve got plans for you later.”

“Ooh, that sounds promising,” she teases, fingers sliding back against his cheeks. Her grip is soft, a featherlight whisper along his skin, and when she tilts his head back, he obeys. Looks up at her — only her, always her — and her smile is so devastatingly, heartbreakingly soft.

For a moment, she is content to soak in the sight of him. No need to wonder what she thinks or feels, he can see it written clear as day on her face — the way her eyes crinkle at the sides, the little dimples when she smiles even wider. Every emotion shines loud and bright like the sun, never hidden or concealed.

Cordelia leans down, lips pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re an amazing father, you know that right?”

“So you keep telling me,” he muses, but the doubt is there, coursing along his nerves. His throat feels too tight, too dry. Is he a good father? He doesn’t think so, not really. Mason knows he makes mistake after mistake, falters and fails, but he tries. 

Every single day, he wakes up and he tries and it’s hard, terribly so, but it’s worth it.

“And you should believe me, you know I’m never wrong.” He might argue, might tease, but then her mouth is on his, lips rolling against his own, and he drowns himself in her.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve this little family he now calls his own, but he intends to keep it, to never let it go.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


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